


The Traitor at Osgiliath

by Rabbit



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: BFFs, Free Orcs, Gen, No Romance, Post-War of the Ring, The Haradrim, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:22:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27612715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabbit/pseuds/Rabbit
Summary: Being the chronicles of a too-honorable for his own good Orcish soldier, his Haradrin buddy, the end of the War of the Ring, and what they did after.Movie-centric fic; gaps filled in with book stuff where possible. Violence probably isn't too terribly graphic, but I don't know your life.
Kudos: 4





	1. The Arrow, The Sword, and the First Glimmer of the Light

The men moved from shadow to shadow, but we could see through the shadows. Our rough barges landed and we were immediately upon them, snarling, glorious, exultant in destruction. They were brave, valiant men defending home and country. They were skilled, we were as a hoard of cockroaches or locusts, irresistible by numbers, but ten of us fell for every one of them-- until, the arrival of Our Lord of Angmar, who scooped the men from the walls and battlements and dashed them to the earth like playthings of twig and bone. Even then, I had not given up hope, though in my heart I longed to be of them, resplendent in leather doublet, the device of the white tree on my breast. But soon enough they did flee before our-- I thought then-- might, while the Dark Kings harried them. And I was glad then in two directions, as the victory pounded in my ears as sweet as flesh in the teeth.

As I watched from a ruined minaret, secure in my glory and possessed by the beauty of the end of battle, I saw suddenly a flash of white streaking across the plain like an elvish arrow. It was a rider, all in white, and a white light gleamed from his raised weapon like the very sun, but somehow more than that, as the sun was never so strongly turned against darkness, the very concept of darkness, as this light so clearly was. For this light, pure, incomparable, it dispelled even the shadows of the Nazgûl; they turned and fled from it, shrieking, while under the protection of the light-bearing rider in white the survivors of our battle made their escape into the refuge of the tiered city.

This, I remember clearly, etched in the illumination of the rider's weapon, was the moment that I first began to doubt. The light sparked in me a answering glimmer, perhaps, that stirred the elf that slumbered within me from his long and dreamless repose. The second such moment, that which nearly cost me my life, occurred when the men came back.

A double line of bedraggled cavalry, pitiful against our swarms which hived in the ruins of Osgiliath, issued bravely and desperately from the base of Minas Tirith. My breath caught in my throat at the sight, and a tear created itself in the corner of my eye and broke upon my horned cheek. This was the first tear I had ever shed in my life, though never yet the last.

The warriors from the South had not yet arrived save for two scouts, marching along with their wicked bows and their fierce eyes. Our Lord of Angmar treated them with respectful condescension, and I found myself utterly fascinated by these strangers. Clearly, they regarded my kind as little more than beasts, like trained worgs or oiliphaunts, yet they would fight beside us, thralls of the Eye. However, like the men of the tiered city, these too had honor, bearing, nobility, and it was easier to admit to myself that I desired, deeply, to be one of them as well. Thus I had arranged to be standing within easy view of them, as we all prepared for the ill-fated attack.

The "battle" which ensued with the rag-tag band of Gondorians was swift and decisive. They flew unto our mouths like flies to a toad and were summarily devoured for breakfast. There are many words one can use to describe a battle, I have found, but far fewer to describe a massacre. Or perhaps I am loath to waste the vocabulary on events of that nature. There is one moment, however, which must be recounted, as it has bearing on what followed after.

As is known, the main of the meagre force did not even make it to the crumbling walls of our outpost, their armor little match for the nigh endless volleys of arrows unleashed upon them. The gleaming metal of their armor deflected many of our shots, but-- well, when there is a rainstorm, one will get wet. And so with these. About half the array were cut down and the warband leader sent a bunch of us out to clean up the rest, myself included. In this way, I found myself blade-on-blade with the young captain of the force, barely hanging onto his steed, his steel and silver armor tarnished with his own blood. One arrow protruded from his shield-arm, and his blade was wet with the blood of my comrades. He had little strength in his limbs, and the clash of my blade on his jarred his one remaining arm such that his horse reared, and he slid backwards from the saddle, scrabbling to stay amount. He failed, and our eyes met as I stood above him, my sword raised to strike him down, and he lifted his chin, accepting his fate without fear or resignation.

I lowered my blade. I did not move-- to do so would be to alert my fellows in their gleeful slaughter that something-- everything-- was amiss, but as our eyes held there for that terrible moment I realised that on my honor-- honor that I had, and that I held-- I could not strike him down.

Something then caused me to look up, and I found myself looking into the face of one of the Haradrim scouts, his gaze curious and fierce over his veil. I did not see him move but he was at my side, his bow drawn, and before I could stop him he fired a point-blank shot into the Gondorian's torso, denting cleanly through the armor.

"Just the gut," said the Southron tersely, "He'll live." And he hove the soldier up by his shoulders. Sensing-- something, salvation, perhaps-- I aided him. We loosely fixed the man upon his horse and the Southron took his sword, striking him unconscious with the pommel. The horse tried to bolt, but the scout spoke to it in low words I did not understand, and it calmed, at least a little.

"A high-value prisoner" he said, while my people cheered the slaughter all about us, hacking the heads of the men from their bodies, and we spoke together.

"It won't matter." I replied, meaning many things at once, and nothing.

"Perhaps not," he shrugged, "but…" He glanced up at where our Warleader, Gothmog, stood laughing on the ramparts, and for the first time I felt in my soul what an ugly sound it was, and what ugly things it meant for us and for the men in the city beyond.

As it was, the Haradrin was right. Gothmog was delighted at the idea of returning the leader of the armies of Gondor to the city "alive", such as it was, and promptly took credit for such a plan. I did not have it in me to object, naturally, and he placed me under Murgash for the siege next day-- a privilege, such as it was, and meant tongue and liver as my portion from the slain men at the feasting that night. I had little stomach for it, the sweet roasted meat turning to ash in my mouth as I thought on that captain, and the look in his eyes when he thought he would meet his death on my blade. I only managed something like the expected relish in the feast when I considered that perhaps, by consuming the flesh of those who had been so brave, honorable, and devoted to throw themselves into the pit of our arrows, I might take into myself some of their qualities.

It was in the midst of this half-hearted revelry that the Haradrin scout found me once more, seated a little apart from my fellows. We looked at each other for a very long moment, in a silence tense on my part… curious, on his.

"What is your name?" he said finally, a question I had never before been asked in the way that he asked it.

"Bùrzukash," I said, making my voice as gentle as possible. No mean feat, that. "And yours, sir?"

His eyes startled at that, though I could make out none else of his face beneath the veil.

"Taizin." He hesitated, then raised the hilt of his weapon to his forehead, a kind of salute. But not his weapon, I realized-- the sword of the Gondorian captain, who lay even now in a near-death fever amongst the heads of his fellows. This thought distracted me to stillness, such that I did not realise that he had turned the hilt of the sword to me, offering it to my hand. I took it, and pressed the pommel against my breast.

"This is no place for you," he said, in a slow and half-awed voice, which echoed the very tone of my own thoughts. I swallowed hard, and he marked this with a nod, as if he understood that I could not say these things-- or anything-- aloud. He took a step back then, and melted away, quick as a rock lizard, and left me alone to my thoughts and my still again less appetizing meal.

So passed my last night as a servant of Sauron.


	2. The Desertion at Pelennor Fields

I say my last night, and that is true in my heart, though it would be another sunrise and sunset at least before I could act on that truth. While the siege weaponry was prepared for the assault on the white city, Nazgul led by My Lord Angmar sat perched on the wall, watching with their soul-piercing eyes. It is this gaze, I think, which had driven the spirit of my people beneath the grime and darkness of servility and death. For the space of those days I all but choked on mine, for fear it would be caught in that gaze and torn out of me, food for the Wraiths. But I escaped their scrutiny, by some miracle, if not my own. Nor did I have the succor of speaking again with my Haridrin, for he had been sent to report on the advance of his people's armies, and did not return until the day of the siege, which I should now describe.

When the siege-day came I mustered with the catapults under Murgash, the unconscious captain and his stupified steed under my care. Normally, I would find this all at least somewhat invigorating-- the steady beat of our drums, the great trolls pulling the high siege towers, the wolf's head held in reserve for the final assault on the massive gates of the city. There is something thrilling about the run up to a battle, something to find pride in. I can still feel that much, about war, but you must understand that up until this very day, war provided the only freedom I had ever known, had ever known could be. For those of us of the black Uruks of Mordor there was nothing more to wish than to march across the lands of men under the banners of the Eye and spend ourselves in glorious, furious battle. It was a simpler way of being, certainly. I don't find that I miss it, even as well as I remember it. There are some skills, some experiences, that never leave you no matter how one might wish it.

Finally, the moment Gothmog chose to deliver the message arrived. Marshaling myself, about halfway across the field, I did my best to set the man in his saddle as if he could possibly sit upright, then smacked the horse in the rear with the flat of the Gondorian sword. Waking into sensibility, the horse bolted, galloping off across the plain towards Minas Tirith, while its rider flopped about like a half-frozen fish on a broken spear. This was a source of great amusement to the army of my people, and their laugher and jeers broke harshly on my ears. The horse got another third of the way to the great gate before the unfortunate captain slid from the saddle and slumped most of the way to the ground, his ankle caught in the stirrups, which made him bounce a bit. This was good for another rousing gale from the ranks, but I could bear no more. I took note of the horse, how it slowed, as if sensing, finally, the distress of its rider. This struck me deeply-- that this beast, this unthinking creature, had enough compassion to suddenly be cautious of the rider that it could not otherwise aid.

Looking to the others of my people-- I knew I had long been unique in having, or admitting, anything like fellow feeling for any of their number, even if only to myself. For the first time, my gorge rose to behold them, and I felt something that must be like the hatred and contempt that we often hold ourselves and each other in. This too was intolerable, from both ends. I would have quit their company that moment, save that I knew any attempt to leave, while Murgash and Gothmog's eyes were upon me, would be met with a hail of arrows or a quick beheading, and not a moment's more thought. And I yet cared for my own preservation enough not to seek that escape from my situation. So instead I sought again with my eyes the few Haradrim, hovering about the edges of our force, until I marked Taizin, notable for the surprising warmth of his eyes, and because he was looking at me too. I felt somewhat foolish for the flood of relief that came over me as I beheld him, and too that I felt trust for this man at all. This both because he was of the race of men, and because or knowledge of each other thusfar extended to a handful of words, and… well. The gift of a sword, which lent weight to those words, which were not without heft themselves. So too this look, which seemed well to know my thoughts, and I thought I saw him dip his chin to me, just slightly, ere the horse with its unconscious burden reached the gate and was admitted by the men behind the wall.

Then Gothmog rode back up the lines upon his mighty worg, and I gave him my shoulder to dismount. He shoved me by so doing, and I stumbled a bit, but straightened enough to stand again while the lines of catapults returned the remainder of the prisoners to their people. Though I looked I did not see Taizin again for some time. I wanted to ask Murgash about the Haradrim, but did not dare. It mattered little; amid the laughs and jeers of or lines and the screams of anguish from over the wall, I shortly overheard him telling captain Guritz and the warleader that they'd run out once more to gauge the arrival of the armies from Near Harad, with some number of _mûmakil_ beasts fit out for war. I felt a chill pass then, and my tiny spark of courage guttered, finding no mooring to anchor to. Numb, I aided the trolls in loading heavy stone into our catapults, and barely tried to hide my flinching as the walls and towers of the white city crumbled under the volley.

Sickness seized my guts and I shifted back into the lines, and then all became quiet. Looking up, paralysis took me as a stillness of anticipation fell, and then the men of Gondor returned a courtesy of stone and brick-studded mortar for our release of their prisoners. To the left and right of me, my fellows were obliterated beneath a hail of stone and I could not weep nor mourn them, because I dared not do so, for one, and because I felt no pity, no mourning in my heart. Not because they would not have mourned for me, but because not one of them would have mourned for any of our number. Not even for Gothmog the Great, great into his cruelty, the worg-rider, he who was said to have been re-made from one of the destroyed Ring-Wraiths, he who carried himself as a king might, had we kings. I have since known men of lesser courage than he, and yet greater cruelty, though blessedly few of the latter. There is much else to say on this topic, but I get ahead of myself.

The winged Nazgul disrupted the volley of stone for a brief spell as they descended upon the city, and so too my paralysis, and that of my comrades. The trolls pushed the towers to the walls and moored them, and we were commanded to carry the rams to the gates whilst arrows rained upon our heads. The chaos was sufficient that I was able to lose myself in it for a time, doing little, but searching for any sign of the Haradrim coming from the East. And beyond that, avoiding my own death, best I could, by either side, until I heard Murgash give the order: Gothmog had called for Grond, the Wolf's Head, to batter down the stubborn gates.

Here I hesitated. Grond was a marvel, a wonder of the engineering and artistry possible in the hands of my people, permitted only to express itself in service of destruction. How I admired the horrid thing! How I detested it! But it and the beasts moved only slowly, and I knew that night would fall before the gates did. And I knew also, that if I were to do the thing that was in my heart, this was the moment in which my window was open. If I lingered, I would be swept into the breach, and there I would have to wield the Gondorian Captain's sword against his own, and that… that, I could not do. So I gave up my search for Taizin for the time being, and with all distracted by the assault, I slipped away in the twilight, towards the Anduin.

Unsurprisingly, I was not missed.


	3. Fires in the Night

Out of necessity, we orcs are very good runners. Fully armored under arms, we can keep pace with a horse as well as any wolf can, and under cover of dark the moreso. As night fell, my speed grew, and the thin, sweet taste of freedom flavored the smoke from the burning city behind me. Even still, I had not travelled so far that I could not hear the thunderous crack when the wolf's maw rent the Gate of Gondor.

Then I paused and against my better judgement looked back. The great high walls and towers could yet be seen against the night, red and wicked did they seem, a false light with no moon to tell by. No moon, nor a star, only the dull, dark gray of the breath of Mordor, hanging in the sky, and I wondered at my own rebellion, for the living lands of the Western men beyond the river seemed to me, just then, no different from the Plateau of Gorgoroth, which I had once called home.

Despair, once admitted into a heart, never again feels the need to knock when it comes calling. I had grown up with it residence in mine. In retrospect, the real wonder is that I had not buckled to it until this point. Slowly, painfully, I turned my gaze towards the river, whereupon I started out of my dark mood. For there was a shape, a single rider upon a horse, bearing swift towards me.

There is little place to hide in the Pellenor fields between Minas Tirith and the Anduin, but in the darkness, any single orc may become near invisible. I did so then, making myself as still as a stone to await the comer, and hoped he would pass me, unmarked. I waited, then stood, and gave a shout- for the rider passed near enough to me that I could see his veiled face, and I knew him to be Taizin, my Haradrin. Perhaps I ought to have thought better of this, lest I be mistaken, but I was not mistaken, and he drew short his horse in startlement. I saw his arrow knocked and ready to fly into my heart-- but then he marked me also, and circled his horse round to come to my side.

"Bùrzukash?" he said, and I had never heard my name uttered in such a way before. There was no malice, no haughtiness, no command in it, but surprise and- I fancied- genuine pleasure to see me.

"Aye. You ride for the fighting, Taizin?"

"Well…" he looked back over his shoulder, "…the army of my people will arrive by daybreak, give or take. I carry this news. You… are not here to receive it, then?"

I hesitated, then shook my head no. "You were right, before, when we spoke at Osgiliath. This… that." I gestured to the flames and smoke of the siege behind me, "I don't belong there."

"Ah." His horse stamped and tossed its head, and he stilled it wordlessly, his expression unreadable beneath his veil, "I had not thought you'd taken that to heart. Where, then, do you suppose you belong?"

I paused. There was something different in his manner, but I knew not what. My instinct cried deceit, but I did not wish to believe it. I had not yet learned of nuance nor subtlety; this too would come, in time. Thus, I forced myself into honesty.

"I do not know. Perhaps… I thought I might go South, for the men of the Haradwaith are at least not unfamiliar with my kind, and… if any number of them are like you, perhaps I could find a place for myself there."

I thought he might laugh- he looked, for a moment, as if he might laugh- but he did not. His eyes instead grew kind, if pitying, and he dismounted from his horse.

"Perhaps one day, but I will remind you that there moves an army, men and beasts, who fight under the banner of the lidless eye. Should you encounter them, you will not be permitted to continue. Likewise, Corsairs from the coast will soon arrive from the southern Anduin, and it will be overrun. If you truly seek what you claim, neither East nor South lay open to you now."

My heart dropped once more. Of course, he was right! I cursed myself in very pure and dire Black Speech, and Taizin spat over his shoulder at the sound of it.

"What of you, then?" I challenged him, yet in my depths, "You speak to me as a Man to another Man, you pay me a Man's honor- you too do not seem to belong whence you have come, nor where you are going."

Taizin grew very still. And then, passing his reins to one hand, he removed his veil, so that I could see his full face. It was a handsome face, for a Man, and I could see that what I had said troubled him. I began to utter regrets, but he stopped me.

"You aren't wrong. I do not belong here either. As I am sure you are well aware, there are many times when all acceptable choices are taken from one. The only difference between us, in that, is that for me, it was a loss. You have never had any. Until, it seems, now." He smiled, and it was as though the moon and stars I had earlier missed had broken through the haze of Mordor to shine direct upon my face, "You surprised me, when we first met, it's true. I have never met an Orc yet… willing, or able, perhaps, to make room in themselves for a heart. But I did not truly think that you would… do as you are now. It makes me…" he hesitated, "…proud. For you, and for myself, also. Remembering my own pride. I think, perhaps, the Gods willed us to meet in this way, and also to find each other, here, between to armies. Perhaps they will see fit to guide us further."

I did not, at the time, know entirely what he meant by Gods. The closest analogue I knew was, of course, the Lidless Eye; the Dark Lord of the tower of Mordor, and to some extent, the lordly Wraith-Kings. I wondered about these Gods of Men, but more pressing matters loomed. His warning had not left my mind, and the night would not last forever- and if it did, we were both of us doomed.

"I will take you at your word, then, Taizin of the Southron. But I do not know this land even as well as you, and we are both strangers here. If you truly mean what you have said- then perhaps you have a suggestion?"

He sucked his teeth thoughtfully, then nodded back in the direction of the city.

"West, I feel, is the only viable option. There is a forest on the other side of the city, that the Westron call Druadan. If we can make it there, we will have some ability to regroup and determine our next steps. Judging by the battle I see, this… will not be the easiest task.

The fullness of what he had said- what all he had said implied- broke through to me just at that moment. I have said that I did not understand much of nuance at this point. This, then, was to be my first real lesson.

"You mean us to go- to escape- together!?"

"Yes… did I not say as much? The Gods have placed us together for a reason, friend Bùrzukash, and until I that reason is made manifest to me, I dare not thwart them in it. I will remain with you, if you are willing."

It was yet hours til true daybreak, but for me, the sun rose in that moment for the first time in my heart, and I found the light nourishing, rather than scalding. There is no word in Black Speech for this- friend- and the Orkish abasements of Tarkish (our general term for all Man-speech) and Elvish tongues do the concept no favors. But most of we Black Orks know a little pidgin of at least some of these, and I understood what he meant, even if I hardly dared to believe it. But he had said it, and as he said it he offered me his hand, just as he would to another of his people. As I had witnessed such as him do, then, I clasped his hand back, up to the arm, and prayed that my face conveyed my gratitude to him sufficiently, for I could not that moment speak.

"It's settled then," he grinned at me, and refastened his veil, "We ride then for the west, and hope we can evade as much of the fighting as possible, until we reach Druadan forest. There is one difficulty though-- I have only the one horse, and…" he hesitated, "I am unsure how well she will take to you, if you were to ride behind me.

"Do not trouble yourself, or… her," I said carefully, the oddity of applying the pronoun to a beast tripping me up a little, "I will be able to keep pace with you, on my own feet. And we will be less conspicuous then, for there are very few cases when one such as I may ride a worg; still less a horse. Perhaps- if your Gods will it, you shall teach me to ride sometime. But for now- let us away."

"Perhaps they will." The smile was still warm in his voice as he mounted, and we both turned together towards the besieged city, rushing headlong into the very maw of danger.

**Author's Note:**

> As there are very few sources on Black Speech or it's Orkish debasement, I am relying largely on the LOTRO wiki's entries here: https://lotro-wiki.com/index.php/Black_Speech_and_Orkish, and some other resources here: https://folk.uib.no/hnohf/orkish.htm and https://www.elfdict.com/about. Unfortunately, almost none of the Harad-tongue is recorded, so I will probably rely on the old TTRPG supplement for it when and where that comes up.


End file.
